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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27771556">Gunsmoke and Mirrors</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakehours/pseuds/snakehours'>snakehours</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Going Westward [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(also the period typical bigotry and homophobia will not be very explicit, (its Beezle), 19th Century, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Western, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Chaps, Courting Rituals, Cowboy Crowley, F/F, F/M, Gen, Guns, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Typical Bigotry, Period-Typical Homophobia, References to Oscar Wilde, Smoking, Swimming, Swordfighting, Swords, The Ribbon - Freeform, Trans Character, Western Showdowns, man fights with his sword for once, the epitome of the "im a healer but-" meme, this is just a warning)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:22:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,720</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27771556</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakehours/pseuds/snakehours</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale Fell, Civil War veteran and failed bookshop owner, receives an offer from an old wartime officer he kept in touch with to start again and run a business in his town. Anthony J. Crowley, ex-sharpshooter who’s last seen Aziraphale just before the war ended, turned to cattle ranching and settled down to an area a few miles away from that small town of Eden. Between an unexpected reunion and a coverup, the two find themselves coming together in the most peculiar and perilous of circumstances.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale &amp; Gabriel (Good Omens), Aziraphale &amp; Madame Tracy (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub &amp; Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub &amp; Dagon (Good Omens), Brian &amp; Pepper &amp; Wensleydale &amp; Adam Young (Good Omens), Hastur/Ligur (Good Omens), Michael/Uriel (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell &amp; Madame Tracy (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Going Westward [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2031628</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Gunsmoke and Mirrors</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Worst meet-cute award of the century belongs to these two.</p><p>(chapter title from the song When This Cruel War is Over by Charles Carroll Sawyer)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gettysburg, Pennsylvania July 4, 1863</p><p> </p><p>Independence Day hosted during the Antebellum years were stimulating affairs. Women with large hoop skirts resting at tables, parasols sheltering delicate skin from blistering summer heat and fans in hand to keep fainting spells at bay as they succumbed to conversations of <em> have you seen our sweet Margaret in the dress she’s donning </em> and <em> dear, the matter of so-and-so’s family from what I heard is- </em>  while their children entertain themselves by running around courtyards. Beyond them, men spoke amongst one another of business and politics beneath the shade of gazebos. Warm summer nights celebrated with large county balls and bountiful feasts where every family made an effort to bring something to the potlucks remained the staple of celebrating unity amongst the underlying tensions.</p><p> </p><p>Pity the founding fathers couldn’t see the state of things a hundred years later.</p><p> </p><p>No proper Independence Day celebration would be had tonight for these men. Nor a celebration for their victory against the Confederacy, for the casualties amassed these past three days made sure to dampen whatever valor they held. Rain steadily poured down throughout the hillside as the marching and drumming of the Confederate retreat sounded, growing distant and muffled by the deluge. Today’s thunderstorm had lasted several hours, and the remaining Union soldiers took the opportunity to wipe away some of the dirt, grime and blood off their bodies before running back into the tents to change. </p><p> </p><p>Rain also made gathering the deceased and injured more difficult than it already was.</p><p> </p><p>Fields began to soak heavily in the storm. The few morticians stationed around the battlefield tried and failed not to fumble in the mud as they retrieved fallen men to clean up for embalming to send them back home to their families for wakes and funerals. Every soldier who remained would be buried by sunrise, nothing but a crude gravemarker to mark the burial site. Yards away from this gruesome scene stood an infirmary tent, where a lone field medic, blanket draped over his shoulders, sat on a single worn chair. </p><p> </p><p>Unlike other unfortunate men in the infirmary battling against the grip of death, Aziraphale was unharmed save for a sprained ankle. Between retrieving injured soldiers and dressing wounds, he had managed to trip, causing the injury rendering him useless amongst his fellow medics. The doctor stopped. scalpel in hand, to give Aziraphale his only chair since all cots in the tent were occupied.</p><p> </p><p>He was quite young, only in his early twenties yet disheveled from hours of working in the infirmary. The stress of his work aged him prematurely, creating dark lines beneath reddened eyes showcasing his exhaustion. If it weren’t for the humidity, sweat, and grime, Aziraphale’s hair would have framed his head, light blonde and curling, forming something of a halo that gave him a youthful impression. The shirt he wore, caked with mud and blood stains, was partially untucked from his trousers. It was ruined, no doubt. For now the best the medic could do was rinse them out until he found a proper laundress. Maybe even mellow out whatever rough edges he had with a proper bath for once while he was in a town that held the necessary accommodations. At this moment, relishing in well earned and needed rest for his injury’s sake was top priority. </p><p> </p><p>His mind seemed to have other plans.</p><p> </p><p>The longer he sat alone, Aziraphale began to recount hours spent fighting to save the lives of his fellow soldiers. It was useless for him in recalling the faces of the men he witnessed fall during the battle at Gettysburg. Both parties seemed to have an endless number of casualties when they assessed the losses after the battle had ended. Hushed talk of the thousands of dead soldiers,<em> over three-thousand </em> he had heard in passing from one of the morticians <em> a shame for their families </em>. A seamlessly neverending flow of faces passed through the medical tent, most leaving covered in cloth to be laid out in the field.</p><p> </p><p>Forgetting the names and faces of every soldier that passed under his care was crucial in keeping his collected demeanor while working. It kept his bubbling anxiety from spilling over causing a breakdown during the more tedious procedures. By the end of the day the medic felt struck with guilt of his actions, especially when they approached him outside of the surgical tent. The thought chilled him under the small blanket wrapped around his shoulders. </p><p> </p><p><em> This all could have been far worse </em>.</p><p> </p><p>Aziraphale almost gave a short laugh at the thought.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps after this whole war, he will laugh. Once finished, he’ll never serve in another war for as long as he lives. Aziraphale for now would have to bite the- God willing-  figurative bullet, assisting the head doctor in whatever tasks are needed. </p><p> </p><p>As Aziraphale’s mind raced, he failed to notice one of the recovering soldiers walking up to where he was. He was only brought out of his head by the brief passing and the glimpse of the figure in his peripheral. The stranger was rather tall, but not much taller than Aziraphale. His head was adorned with copper waves of hair that seemed to glow in the lamplight, tied together with a stained pale blue ribbon- either with mud, blood or some combination of the two- he couldn’t tell. His sunburnt face was speckled with freckles, framing bright eyes- one of which was bandaged. The uninjured eye reflected amber from the burning kerosene as he stopped just in front of where Aziraphale sat. </p><p> </p><p><em> He doesn’t look much like military personel </em> the medic observed from behind. <em> Neither of us look befitting of our roles in serving one’s country, I suppose </em>.</p><p> </p><p>Looking back at the bandage covering half the man’s face, Aziraphale worried at his bottom lip. With that sustained injury, it looks as if the man’s time fighting will end very soon.</p><p> </p><p>The man pulled a pipe, matchbook, and a tin filled with sweet smelling tobacco from his trouser pocket, muttering to himself as he faced the dreary scene beyond the tent’s entrance.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, that went down like a lead balloon.”</p><p> </p><p>“Pardon?” Aziraphale raised a brow.</p><p> </p><p>The man stilled, a bit startled by the response as if he hadn't expected to be heard or noticed where he was. “I said,” he repeated, this time a bit louder. “that went down like a lead balloon.”</p><p> </p><p><em> Oh </em>. </p><p> </p><p>“Yes, it rather did.”</p><p> </p><p>He tapped the end of his dark pipe against the palm of his hand, dislodging the remaining ashes from before tamping fresh tobacco into the bell. Soon after, the soldier stilled briefly, then furrowed his brow in frustration.</p><p> </p><p>“Y’know,” he began, gesturing with pipe in hand. “I don’t understand why this damn war even started. They should’ve just accepted the new terms and conditions of abolition.”</p><p> </p><p>That is a question Aziraphale often asked himself at night. Even though he knew the answers, it still felt out of his grasp- a concept incapable of truly understanding. That if he doubted it would have him questioning if all the soldiers’ efforts were in vain. Decisive as ever, the blonde suppressed his own doubts, mustered his most courteous smile and looked up towards the injured soldier. </p><p> </p><p>“Well..”</p><p> </p><p>A beat before the stranger replied. “-Crawly.”</p><p> </p><p>“The reason for the southern state’s rebellion can be singled down to their felt lack of recognition for nearly the past century.” Aziraphale leveled his voice and emotion as he explained. “Quite exacerbated due to the desire for abolition, from what it seems. That with the combined conversation about basic rights for our fellow man, the secession happened, then the war.”</p><p> </p><p>He sighed, then looked back to Crawly. “Money tends to do things to people, frankly, and with such a large amount of it at stake, the southern states were unwilling to meet the demands. As for the Union to retaliate after the declaration of each Confederate state’s secession to ensure the states are reunited once again, I believe it is a righteous endeavor.”</p><p> </p><p>“And now, we’re practically slaughtering one another on the battlefield.” With that, Crawly struck a match in effort to light his tobacco pipe, and with a few steady puffs, embers began to glow from the top. The muggy air that hung in the tent intensified the sweet scent of smoke. He breathed out a steady plume, his visible eye dark.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s war. There’s nothing righteous about this.”</p><p> </p><p>Aziraphale knew that quite well. What carnage he witnessed as he stitched and dressed soldiers with bandages stayed with him, even in sleep. Shivering, he pulled the blanket around his shoulders closer.</p><p> </p><p>“Finding yourself cold in this heat?” Crawly eyes Aziraphale trying his best to ward away the persistent chill. “You might do better with your regiment coat.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh, yes well..”</p><p> </p><p>Crawley raised a brow in question of the medic’s nervous reaction. Feeling it was an excellent chance to tease, his face lit up with a mischievous grin. <em> Good Lord, someone help him. </em></p><p> </p><p>Circling around his chair, the stranger surveyed his victim. Aziraphale’s mind went to a book he read about constrictor snakes, how they do something similar to their prey-- he pulled closer at the blanket.  He felt as if he were about to be eaten alive, with Crawly’s steady eye on him. In turn, Aziraphale kept his own trained to his lap, face flushing under the other’s attention. “Lost it already, have you? There’s only one given to you before you have to pay out of pocket, you know-”</p><p> </p><p>“I gave it away,” a breathless reply was given as he twisted his hands nervously.</p><p> </p><p>Both of the soldier's brows shot to his hairline, the bandage moving slightly with his look of surprise. “You what?”</p><p> </p><p>“I gave it away!” now Aziraphale was sure his face had gone entirely red with Crowley’s teasing.</p><p> </p><p>A moment passed, and the silence between the two went from expectant to awkward. After biting his lip, Aziraphale made an effort to look back towards the stranger, now staring at him expectantly.</p><p> </p><p>“Why do you keep looking at me that way?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m waiting for you to finish! You left your story on ‘I gave it away’ without divulging in details. And with that kind of reaction,” Crawly mimicked his tone of voice while gesturing wildly, pipe in hand before biting onto the mouthpiece. Then, he bared his teeth in the wildest grin that Aziraphale had ever seen on any man, persisted. “Makes me think it’s a hell of a story.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s really not much of a story.” Aziraphale waves a hand as if to dismiss the thought. “Our corps was passing through one of the towns before arriving at Gettysburg, and as we stopped to rest there was a man begging on the street corner, lamenting to our platoon about his misfortune. There had been a flood just a few days before we set foot in the county. Since I refuse to carry much money while traveling, and frankly have yet to be paid, in the end all I could offer was the coat.”</p><p> </p><p>“Ah,” Crawly nodded in understanding. </p><p> </p><p>“Sometimes,” he began, twisting the edge of the blanket beneath his fingers, “I feel moments such as those are the only times I can truly be of anyone’s service. Maybe even the most I can do at times during this cruel war, Crawly. Even after they approved my transferral to the medical division, I feel as if I lack what is needed.” </p><p> </p><p>He shuddered again, this time recalling his last station within a platoon. Memory of his commanding officer, who praised Aziraphale for natural skills and his potential, positioned him within a cavalry battalion after showing exemplary skills in sword fighting. Aziraphale was sure he would do well, even without the encouragement from his superior officer; however, his high hopes took a turn for the worse the moment he stepped upon the field. Yes, his skills <em> were </em> exemplary. But no matter the skill, at the end of the day he had witnessed his first and singular kill by his blade; seeing the life drain from his adversary’s eyes as the man collapsed before him was enough. As the bugle sounded a strong, brassy note to mark the beginning of the new day, Aziraphale begged for a transferral to the medical unit to train underneath one of the enlisted doctors.</p><p> </p><p>Crawley’s current expression practically screamed at Aziraphale to give a more satisfying explanation. To Aziraphale’s delight, the soldier instead took another draw from his pipe before turning back.</p><p> </p><p>“And now you’re helping save lives. I don’t believe you can do the wrong thing at this point, no matter where you’ve started.”</p><p> </p><p>Oh.</p><p> </p><p>What was left of the last wave of the storm outside the tent had calmed down slightly, possibly even faded away with Crawly’s words, Aziraphale’s tension following suit. Of course they barely know one another, and yet that displaced kindness hidden behind what sardonic sense the other held shone through with the moments solace to the ailing medic. An overwhelming feeling of relief and thankfulness nearly bursting out of his chest.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh” Aziraphale beamed and his smile increased in warmth, a tone nearly revealing relief at the man’s consolation. “Oh- thank you.. it’s been bugging me quite a lot.”</p><p> </p><p>A hidden smile from the stranger only increased his increasing admiration. <em> Oh, goodness…  </em></p><p> </p><p>“You know,” he begins once again as the sound of rain crescendos once again. “Would be funny if fighting in the war was the wrong thing for you and I.”</p><p> </p><p>Before Aziraphale could meet him with outrage, from outside the tent comes two unfamiliar soldiers soaked from the storm, one set towards them while the other waits at the entrance. The first was taller than Crawly, with platinum hair and a rough look about his face stood watch. The other, who had now approached the cot where they were, was a great deal shorter. Raven hair and pale eyes made for an intense look that had Aziraphale shrinking within himself as if he were the one in trouble. In further inspection of the uniform, Aziraphale noted the sergeant regalia upon the arm of their blue coat.</p><p> </p><p>“Private Crawley,” their tone rough, voice much higher than what Aziraphale had gathered from such an intense person. “You’ve been summoned to speak with the Second Lieutenant. Keep in mind he lacks the tolerance for dawdling.”</p><p> </p><p>There was venom in the sergeant's last words; a threat to an already doomed man. After one last piercing glare to Crawly, they made their way back to the edge of the tent where the other gentleman stood in wait for their Private Crawly to once again be at their disposal.</p><p> </p><p>“Well,” a tired sigh, then a nervous glance back at the sergeant. “Time to face the music. It really was lovely chatting with you, angel. We should speak again after this war is over, yes? Now, if you’ll excuse me-“</p><p> </p><p>With a slight nod, the man once again reunites with the two, then disappears into the sheet of grey rain. Aziraphale, once again, is left sitting alone on his cot. </p><p> </p><p>There were an assortment of emotions flooding the medic: the residual admiration for the kindness bestowed upon him, the comfort in consolation from the stranger, exhaustion from the conversation finally finished, and then the fluttering sensation in his chest from being called <em> angel </em> of all things by such a man—</p><p> </p><p>No. <em> No. </em> That thought would <em> not </em> be dwelled on any longer. Whatever simulated infatuation Aziraphale conjured during their brief meeting could be explained by events that had taken place. Of course it could. Perhaps it was due to the guardianship of his role as a medic and feeling protective of the connection made between a soldier he had previously forced himself to be detached from? Was it just the perceived gentle nature that had him thinking this was to be more than just some man interested in small talk? Whatever it was, the memory of Crawly’s gaze left him flustered, maybe even a bit lightheaded.  </p><p> </p><p>No matter. Crawly was gone. Even if he’d been truly enchanted by the handsome stranger, Aziraphale doubted they would reunite at any point after the war, especially with the injury the other had sustained. For now, the sound of thunder resounding through the hills of Gettysburg would remain his company until the storm passed.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The first chapter is finally finished! Writing a true Western AU has been something I've been cultivating over the past four months, and fantasized about for nearly a year. And now here we are. It's exciting! </p><p>Although I wish I had this finished sooner, between work and the constant moving around due to Laura's affects on my home I haven't really been able to finalize anything for this really until now. And feels amazing to see at least part of this done! Also, yes I do have more planned. No, I don't have a writing/posting schedule for myself just yet.</p><p>I want to give special thanks to my friends tartilini and isabelypincel on instagram for beta-ing this for me! Also special to my friend Riin, who helped encourage me to start writing again!</p><p>ANOTHER THING! Major disclaimer about my entire fic. Some aspects might not be too historically accurate, especially the timeline of events for this chapter, but I try my best to write them as believable as I can. Call it historical fanfiction if you will.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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